Moving

Breaking Sad

I’ve been feeling a lot of emotions lately. This moving across country thing, ya know? I’ve been all over the place. Like a good episode of Breaking Bad, I start content but end my day sweaty and angry.

All the packing and repacking and selling and goodbye parties and hugs. After awhile—no matter how much you want to go, now matter how easy it’s been to leave in the past—moving across country, away from everyone you know and love, just sucks. And I’ve been feeling it.

The other day, I nearly broke down in tears after hearing the main theme song from Home Alone 2 in a local toy shop.

HE GAVE THE TURTLE DOVE TO THE PIGEON LADY!!!

Saved by the Bail

We’ve been selling stuff, as mentioned, on Craigslist. The selection is getting thinner which is good. We’re down to the big ticket items like guitar amps and record players. These need to sell, NEED to sell. If they do then we can afford hotel rooms on the way to Rochester. If not, we’ll buy drugs and drive straight through. Well, no.

Craigslist has been affecting my emotional state more than I probably realize.

Every time a potential buyer bails on me (which is often, thank you Craigslist community), I shrug my shoulders; on the inside, though, I’m screaming, “DON”T THEY KNOW HOW IMPORTANT THIS IS?”

“I hate you,” is a text message I also fantasize about sending.

They’re not all bad though. Yesterday, we met a guy at outside a Cabelas to sell an old motorcycle (uhem… moped) helmet. This guy’s head, and that helmet? Match made in Heaven. He looked stout. I could’ve hugged him.

It seemed best to let the stranger leave without a warm embrace.

As he left, I noticed the last link to my scooter was gone. I’ve never talked about my scooter on here before, but let me tell you, I loved it. The scoot was a beast. The Lance Venice, my Lance Venice. 150ccs of pure power. Silver color, 2007 model. 0 to 60 in… well it never quite got to 60, but you get the point. I sold it last year, and God I miss that thing.

I sat there in the parking lot, drunk with emotion, caught between the misery of selling my scooter and the beauty of that stranger’s head wearing my helmet.

Not-so Sweet Emotions

You see what I mean? All these emotions. What’s going on here? This isn’t normal. I’ve been so damn emotional lately! Is this, maybe, the softer side of Kevin, breaking, bursting through the surface like Free Willy?

I’d argue and say that I’ve always had a softer side, in the movies especially. Play me the end of Homeward Bound and I’ll cry my way into puddles. “SHADOW!!!”

Maybe moving across country is just hard. Maybe it was never meant to be easy. Maybe I’m referencing old 90’s movies because I’m afraid of getting older and, right now, looking to the past is easier. Maybe I should’ve talked about my scooter sooner…

Maybe, I’m just breaking sad.

Scooter_Fotor

What’s your response? Any advice? How about a good Craigslist story?

A Hoarder’s Hors d’oeuvre: The Battle of Stuff

How do you spell “stuff” backwards? Well, that’s an easy one! It’s ffuts… as in, “Ah ffuts, I have way too much stuff!”

We all do it. Accumulating unnecessary junk is as American as a DVR taping of Storage Wars.

“Stuff happens,” they say, and no one knows how. One day we check the garage and scream for help. In response, neighbors run to our aid to buy our picture frames on the front lawn.

“Will you take thirty cents?”

Consoling the Consolidating 

My wife and I just got back from a short stint in California. We’ll soon undertake a thirty-five hour road trip across the United States from Coeur ‘d Alene, Idaho to Rochester, New York—where we’re moving to.

We’re here in Idaho, our pseudo homebase, to situate the stuff we left behind. Our goal is to fit all of our belongings into one car load—specifically, a traveled Toyota Prius. No big deal. What did we leave behind? One, two boxes?

“Storage,” I heard my Mother-in-Law say.

“Storage?” I asked.

“Storage.”

“But… that’s impossible.”

Not impossible. Totally embarrassing. We had more ffuts than we realized.

A Hoarder’s Hors d’oeuvre 

People naturally respond to their upbringing in one of two ways: unapologetic acceptance or spiteful opposition. I hate stuff; I always have. It weighs you down and gets dusty. No thanks.

The house I grew up in was dominated by stuff, my Grandmother and her books and antiques and collectables. She isn’t a hoarder, by any means, but she’s getting there.

Pre-med is a good term.

In truth, my grandmother is a wonderful woman with a heart of gold, and I’ll be forever grateful of the upbringing I was given. That said, she could stand to get rid of one or two, or twelve or fourteen, boxes.

My wife had a similar upbringing. When we married, we agreed stuff would never be an issue. To us, clutter is a symptom, a sign of disease, and a storage-unit the sickness.

When I heard the s-word the other day, my stomach turned.

Genesis to Exit Us

The storage unit took two full truck loads to unload. Good Lord. 

Rummaging through, I opened a “childhood box” and found my old Sega Genesis. I smiled, remembering my ten-year-old self playing “Sonic.” I soon realized the cables, controllers, and games we’re all missing. In true hoarder fashion, I’ve been holding on to a useless Sega Genesis console for 16 years.

Why? Why would I hold on to this? I could’ve sold it for $20 ten years ago; the other day, I literally placed a $2 sticker on it.

The worst part? It didn’t even sell. I still have it!

Senti-MENTAL

We excuse ourselves by labeling “sentimental value” on junk that doesn’t matter. We then identify this junk as ourselves, equating it to a limb, and say, “How could I ever throw that away?”

Yes, some things worth holding onto—priceless, family heirlooms come to mind—but the Sega Genesis console, or the WWF flag from the toy wrestling ring, probably deserve a second look.

I spoke to my brother in-law the other day about this issue. Eventually, Buddhism and the act of “letting go of material possessions” came up. We also spoke of Jesus. To me, the principle of “letting go” seems just as Christian as it is Buddhist.

Jesus talked about living for each day, like the sparrows. He told people—not everybody, I know—to get rid of their stuff, to not worry. He spoke about having two cloaks and giving the other one away.

It’s time to come to terms.

It’s time to come clean.

It’s time to get rid of my ffuts.

God knows I’m no Saint, and I’ve got my own ffuts to work out, but…

Seriously, what’s up with all the cloaks, people? More importantly, does anyone want a Sega Genesis console? My price just went down.

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Your thoughts?

The Lie of Nostalgia, The Truth of Home

We’ve been traveling a lot lately—following the West Coast heat wave it would seem.  We left San Luis Obispo, California for Coeur d’Alene, Idaho on June 30th. On the way from SLO, CA, we stopped in Reno to see my mom and then in Boise to see my sister and her kids. We made it back to Coeur d’Alene just in time to jump in the lake on the fourth of July. Long trip.

We’re here for the month. Soon we’ll be making the Great Drive to Rochester, New York where I’m certain our car will explode in protest.

I apologize for the lack of posts, but you know how travel goes. Moving. Yawning. Sunflower seeds. Gum on the seat. Wishing you were home—wherever and whatever home is.

It’s an interesting subject, home; I’ve been thinking a lot about it.

For a long time I confused nostalgia with home. I assumed they were one in the same. I know now they’re not. And while it’s true that one springs from the other—like a seed from a tree or a son from a father—I’ve found that the two are quite separate, quite different.

Nostalgia is a dream. It’s a desire, sometimes sweet but usually bitter. A little nostalgia can go a long way and I believe it’s healthy in this dosage. Quickly though, nostalgia can consume and take root. It’s good to know the difference.

These last six months in California have shown me the difference between nostalgia and home. I always assumed California was my home—the city I grew up in, the town where every street, side-street, and park had a memory—but that wasn’t the case. California is not my home. It’s just a place, a place I once lived. And just like her burritos, California bursts at the seem, overfilled with people I love and places I’d be happy to die in.

But this is not home. It’s just a place.

The few years of marriage have taught me the truth of what home is. My wife is my home. Not any one place in particular, just her. I think home can be a place for some people, but not me. When I’m away from her I’m not myself, nor am I home. It’s just the way it is. Home is her.

Wherever we go we’ll be home—even in Rochester, even without furniture—and I’m excited about that.

Epilogue

I’m working on a blog post for next week and I’m really excited about it. It’s more in the vein of what I usually write. Before I jump back in to the blogosphere, though, it seemed wise to explain my absence and also reflect on what the last couple weeks have taught me.

Thanks for being patient. Stay tuned.

PS: I have a new page on my website. It’s called Top 5 Music, Movies, and Books. Give it a gander and let me know what you think.

Becoming a Better Friend/Leaving All My Friends

It’s June 5th; this means we have 25 sunny (foggy) days left in California. Time has been flying. I didn’t quite realize how fast it was flying until June 1st came around. Really? It’s June???

It hit me like a pile of time bricks… if that’s a thing…

Five of our six California months have been spent. Geez… In a few days we’ll be flying to Rochester to look for places to stay. When we get back we’ll have another couple weeks here; sooner or later, though, July 1st will roll around and I’ll have to say goodbye to all my California friends and family once more.

July 1st we drive back to Idaho to square up our belongings; sometime in August we’ll make—what I’m dubbing—The Great Drive.

(Confused? About Me is a good place to go to catch up)

Good at Leaving

About four years ago I left California for Coeur D’Alene, Idaho. It was there I met my wife, started school, and got really cold. Originally, I was looking for a change of pace. I used to say, “God called me to Idaho;” truthfully, our signal has never been that strong. I just sort of ended up there.

Every time I leave California, whether it be a weekend visit, six month stay, or major life move, I’m reminded of the friendships I have here. The term friend doesn’t really cut it as much as the term family does.

There’s times where I feel just as connected to Randall, Patrick, Scott, Justin, Timmy, both Aaron Boyds, as I would my own brother or sister. Generally, these people have always been there for me. As I get older, I realize how much I’ve taken them for granted. These goofy, weird people.

Friendships Never Sink

When I was younger I assumed the world existed for my benefit. I thought my friends were suppose to be some sort of accessory—something that benefited me in the way I talked, looked, and spent my time. Consequently, I took way more than I received.

Remember that episode of 30 Rock where Liz Lemon dumps all of her problems on to Kenneth, and then Kenneth goes crazy and needs therapy? I think that’s what I did to the majority of my friends. I really wouldn’t be surprised if they were all in therapy.

That said, I’m trying to be a better friend. I’m trying to be a better person, in general. I’m hoping to give more than I take. This includes listening more than talking, or not turning every conversation into something about me.

My friends have stood by me all these years, despite my selfishness. I hope I will get the opportunity to stand by them someday.

We’re starting to get a little older; responsibilities are starting to pile up. But when we get together, we still laugh as much as ever. We pick up right where we left off and I feel at home.

I guess, what I’m getting at, is that I don’t want to leave my friends again. I know that I’ll have to, but this time it wont be as easy.

Cheezy Friendship Gallery

A few photos, recent and old. I guess I’m being emotional or something.

2013: Patrick, Randall, and I
2013
2013, Kevin & The Wonder Years reunion jam
2013: Beard and some Randall
2009: Ireland Trip
2008: Timmy & Garrett sing me a goodbye song
Kevin & the Wonder Years (Last show, I think?)
2007 or 08: 80s Party
2006 or 07: Me and Timmy,
Sometime 2004 or earlier

Fearing Fear and Then Punching Fear in The Face

origin_2768351879I remember standing in line at Space Mountain, Disneyland—six years old or so. My older brother and sister were there, maybe my mom. Yeah, definitely my mom.

Knees buckling. Tears building. Fear grabbing.

Space Mountain? Could there be so terrible a place? My brother was pushing me along in line; this was not a good sign. He was always trying to get rid of me. What evil plan had he concocted now?

Escape. I had to. Closer and closer we inched, past the TVs and the red, terrifying flashing lights. Finally, it came. The exit door. After an hour, we were so close to getting on the ride.

I could just do it, I thought, go on the ride. Would I really fall out?

I looked left and saw the exit sign, then to the right towards a deeper entrance to the ride, then to my brother who was evilly nodding his head. Now or never, I thought.

Tears bottled up, I went for it. Running as fast as I could towards the door, kids laughed behind me and I heard my brother yell. I bursted through the exit; bright-white concrete sun blinded my eyes and I collapsed on concrete—crying my head off.

New Fears, Old Chum

For those of you who may have missed the news, Rochester, New York is now officially in our sights. Scholarships and grants came through in a big way from the University there. We’ll be moving sometime in summer.

See kids, dreams do come true.

It’s bittersweet, really. We’ll be leaving San Luis Obispo—SLO town—and I love it here. I grew up here. I moved away for a number of years; since we, my wife and I, moved back, our time here has been well spent and well loved.

Old chums, new pals, boogie boards, farmers market, breakfast burritos—reconnecting.

All good things come to an end? I guess; new things can be good too. Also scary.

Fear, get out of my face. 

It’s too easy to fall into fear’s trap. We listen to the negative over the positive; we cave in and take the easy way out. The greatest, most terrible side-effect of fear is that it keeps us from doing what we love: accomplishing goals, moving across country, or say, eating octopus.

What if fear was just a tool that we could use for our gain? Recently, I’ve come to terms with fear. Well, I’m trying to at least. See, fear isn’t some trick of the devil. It isn’t Satan’s test. It’s just a test.

Without fear, personal cost couldn’t be measured. For example, would the water be as sweet if I didn’t fear jumping off the rock? Would it even be worth it? I’m starting to wonder.

I encourage you to embrace fear for what it is: a mere tool. Use it for YOUR gain. Mark your dreams by how much they scare you, then reach for the scariest one.

When fear over steps its boundaries, punch it in the face and go on the ride. Space Mountain is totally worth it.

medium_47529326Photo Credit Top [http://www.flickr.com/photos/disneyworldsecets/2768351879/]

Photo Credit Bottom [http://www.flickr.com/photos/joeandy/47529326/]

Gum Butt: The True Story of a Stuck Butt

So we’re in the car. Driving. I think at this point, it had been sixteen hours. Only two hours left and we were home. Or New home. Whatever.

We’re at that point where nothing is funny, nothing is interesting, everything is nothing. We just want out. Get us out of this car. It smells, we smell, I just ate Taco Bell…

Two hours and then it’s over. We’re out of the car for good.

————————-

So my feet are on the dash and Megan’s driving. My back is completely slump with my butt barely on the edge of the seat. I realize, after 20 minutes of sitting like this, how extremely uncomfortable I am. We can’t exactly just push the seats back considering how we packed the car (as much stuff as anyone could possibly fit in a Prius).

So I stretch and begin to move up. For the sake of my back, I desperately need to sit up straight.

When I attempt to sit up, my butt… it… it just won’t move. I’m caught. Like I can pull up a little, no man, game over. It’s stuck.

My first thought is: ok, my keys are stuck to the seat. Trying not to be obvious, I lift my butt as much as I can muster and check my pockets. But no, there are no keys in my pockets. What am I thinking?  

Megan still hasn’t noticed. I’d prefer to keep it this way. It’s not embarrassing, I just don’t want her to know. As a husband I’m expected to protect her, support her, be her knight in shining armer sort of thing. Currently, my butt is stuck to the seat of the car and I don’t know how or why. 

And then, right before I start to panic, I figure it out. In a complete moment of stupidity, I bow my head and start laughing.

Megan looks over and asks about it. There’s no choice, I have to come clean.

“Remember that wad of gum I threw out of the window a couple hours ago?” I ask. She nods her head, “Well, it didn’t exactly… make it out the window.”

“Where is it?” She asks, with a smile, mine giving something away.

I’m trying to find the words, proper words that make me still feel like a man, but all I come up with is: “Under my butt… my butt is stuck to the seat.”

A brief moment of silence passes. She bursts into laughter. I burst into laughter.

I grab the ice scraper for the windshield and began to free myself. There’s a feeling in the pit of my stomach, or butt maybe, that I will probably hear about this for the rest of my life.

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